


deeper, dear, by far

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Newton Geiszler: charming romantic and scourge of productivity everywhere. Hermann Gottlieb: in terrible danger of being romanced, although not if he can help it.Or: scientists in a submarine; what will they repress?
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 5
Kudos: 67





	deeper, dear, by far

**Author's Note:**

> written as an art trade for the indomidable tosha @wravioli, go send their art ALL the love. the song that plays here is day by day, and while the 1959 frank sinatra version is the most well-known, it did technically come out in the 1940s. also i wrote this on the day of an audition, so who cares!

Hermann is unquestionably _not_ dozing off when the rap at his study door jolts him upright with a clatter of chair legs, but if he’s forced to stifle a yawn (or three) before calling, “Yes, who is it?”, well, that’s his business.

The heavy iron door swings open, and Geiszler pokes his head through, hair askew far more than normal and deep bruises under his eyes. “Happy graveyard shift,” he says cheerily, giving a little wave. “I could hear you snoring from down the hall.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Hermann says too quickly, and Geiszler quirks an infuriating little eyebrow at him. “Or snoring,” he adds.

Geiszler leans delinquent-like against the doorframe, arms crossed lazily. “Whatever you say, bud. Wouldn’t blame you, though; it’s o’ two-hundred hours and I know for a _fact_ you haven’t left here since dinner last night.”

Hermann fixes him with a withering glare. “And so you’ve come to accost me and my work until the latter is no longer an option.”

“That,” he says, “and I’m waiting for my scale samples to dry out. Damp as hell down here; dunno if you’ve noticed.”

Hermann has had three colds within the past half a year. He’s noticed.

“So again: you choose to invade my study and distract me. How no one has shoved you out a porthole yet, Geiszler, even I can’t imagine.”

“Stunning good looks and roguish charm,” says Gesizler with a wink. It should not affect Hermann as much as it (always) does. His scowl deepens.

“If you’re so preoccupied with the notion of sleep, perhaps you could do a little of it yourself while you wait. You look like someone gave you a very specific set of black eyes.”

Geiszler laughs. “Goddamn Gottlieb, you must be awful out of it if you’re fussing over _my_ well being. Having second thoughts about your evil plan to feed me to the giant squid?”

“Don’t tempt me,” snaps Hermann. “And _no_ , I’m just eager to get you out of my office and me back to work.”

“Counterplan: you take a horrible, torturous ten minute break with me and come get another cup of coffee.”

Hermann frowns. “I don’t drink the stuff. It’s vile, especially rations.”

“I never said it was for _you_ , pal. Hot water’s needed for both our stuff.” He turns in the doorway and flaps his hand back and forth. “C’mon, you can be my stalwart bodyguard. This thing gets creepy as hell at night.”

Hermann heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh, but rises, stretches his leg, and takes his cane to follow Geiszler. The submarine’s hallways are dark and echoey, lit only by the flickering bulbs on the walls above. Creaks and groans from the hundreds of tons of water pressing down on them sound particularly eerie this late (or, Hermann supposes, early), and he’s filled with the sudden and foolish urge to grab Geiszler’s hand. Hermann shakes his head. Perhaps he really _does_ need a few hours of shut-eye.

Geiszler flicks on the light to the submarine’s kitchen and plucks two dented mugs from the dry rack, turning on the faucet and letting it run to hot. Hermann sniffs.

“You’re wasting water.”

Gesizler shoots him a look. “You want tea or not, Gottlieb? I’m not putting the kettle on at this hour; I don’t need the captain up my ass about waking everybody up.”

“It’s not as if you’re the man of the hour to begin with,” Hermann snipes, and Geiszler lowers his eyelids as if to say, “And you are?” He harrumphs.

“Look,” he says, gesturing with both mugs held by their handles between his fingertips. “Here I am, slaving away over these tokens of my appreciationー”

“I’m so sorry, these _what_?”

“ーand you have the utter _nerve_ to be smart with me!” He gestures to his chest. “I’m wounded, Gottlieb, really. Waste of a good peace treaty.”

“You’re making me military-grade earl grey at two in the morning,” says Hermann flatly. Geiszler tilts his head.

“Exactly. And the thanks I get!”

“Ridiculous man,” he mutters, and opens the pantry doors to pull out a box of dusty-looking tea bags. Geiszler holds a now-filled mug of hot water out to him, and Hermann curls his fingers around the warm tin and drops his tea in. He sets it on the counter to steep, leaning against the jutted steel to take the weight off his bad leg. Gesizler tears open a packet of instant coffee and pours it in, stirring it around with a spoon clearly used a few hours ago at dinner, his thick, callused fingers shifting slightly as he twists the spoon. He catches Hermann staring and grins loosely.

“What?”

Hermann feels his face heat up for no reason. “Nothing. I’mーthinking. The atmosphere lends itself to it.”

“Aw, bully for that,” says Gesizler, and sets his mug down to walk over to the old ham radio shoved haphazardly between some boxes of tinned fruit. “This is supposed to be a break. Let’s see what we can catch down here.”

He twists the dial back and forth, parsing through different flavors of static, before finally a few weak notes drift through the crunch. His fingers move the tiniest bit to the left and the sound clears, high violins slinking into the chilly air. 

“ _Day by day,_ ” sings the woman, jazz drums a languid meter, “ _I’m falling more in love with you. And day by day my love seems to grow._ ”

Geiszler sways back and forth in place, humming along to the tune softly. The weak kitchen bulbs cast his face in a patchwork of shadows, harshening his wan complexion, yes, but also sending ripples of movement across his cheeks every time he flutters his eyelashes. He seems softer somehow; more ethereal, like he’s caught in a strange liminal moment between this world in the next. Hermann feels his mouth go dry as he stares.

Gesizler opens his eyes and gives Hermann half a smile. “So come what may,” he sings, surprisingly on key, “I want you to know I’m yours alone, and I’m in love to this day.” 

Hermann turns his face away to hide the color in his cheeks that rises at the words. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. Geiszler chuckles.

“One of these days, Gottlieb, someone’s gonna force you to let loose, and I hope I’m there to see it. I’ll bet she’ll be something special.”

Hermann chooses not to mention that the woman in question in fact exists, and is probably snogging his sister right about now if he’s got his time zones correct. Instead, he flexes his fingers around his cane. “God forbid.”

Geiszler rolls his eyes and hums a few more notes, then holds out his hand. “C’mon, bud. Show me how you’d treat a lady.”

“Awful presumptuous to call yourself that,” Hermann says without thinking, then freezes. Gesizler gives him an odd look, but doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Hey, what happens at club night stays there. Don’t make me think about graduate school at a time like this,” he quips, dissolving some of the tension and instead leaving a strange air of crackling potential around them. Hermann considers his hand for a long, nervous moment, then takes it gingerly.

“I’d put money on you never having even been to a real dance hall,” he says. “Or at least one not filled to the brim with debauchery.”

“What’s the point of any other kind?” Geiszler says with a smirk, bringing their clasped hands up and placing his other at the small of Hermann’s back. The space, even covered by all his layers of wool and starched cotton, feels like it’s being pressed against dry ice. Hermann’s tongue goes clumsy and swollen in his mouth. Unable to decide what to do with his own free hand, he sets his cane aside and lets it flutter about awkwardly for a moment, before lightly placing it on Geiszler’s shoulder. Gesizler, to his credit, slips the toe of his boot under Hermann’s foot and takes the weight of his right side.

“Besides,” he says, beginning to lead them in small, looping circles around the kitchen, “dancing’s a lot more fun when you actually like who you’re doing it with.”

“Terribly sorry to disappoint, then,” Hermann says dryly. Geiszler gives him a strange, quizzical look.

“For what?”

Hermann blinks. “Because youー” He shuts his mouth and looks down at his feet, deciding it’s safer not to ask. “Nothing.”

Geiszler smiles crookedly. “You’re a weird one, Gottlieb. Endearing, arguably, but still weird.”

Hermann chooses to fixate on the jab rather than trying to unpack the meaning in _that_ compliment. He huffs. “Pot, meet kettle black as night.”

Geiszler shakes his head, grinning oddly at the floor like an idiot. “God.”

“What about Him?”

“No, it’s just―.” He goes silent. “Nothing. You’re a rotten dancer.” A pause as Hermann prepares to retort, and then, seemingly non sequitur, “Hey. Thanks.”

Hermann barely knows what to say to _that_. “I―er. What for, exactly?”

He shrugs, cheeks going oddly pink in the dim light. “Helping me take my mind off… everything. Y’know.”

Hermann does know; the war, the stories, the crushing ocean around them. Their families, both of German heritage and Jewish faith, wholey unpopular in their respective countries at the moment. Hermann’s own brothers and sisters and memories of the Blitz. Geiszler’s knowledge of what’s happening out in the desert of the American southwest, his ache to be a part of it all, and his horror at what it could mean. Endless people they knew and lost. Uncertainty about how this world will rebuild itself after being torn apart.

Hermann lets out a long puff of breath, letting his thumb move up and down on Geiszler’s shoulder. “We’ll do what we can,” he says, “and hope it’s enough.”

Geiszler’s hand is warm and steady on Hermann’s back. “Even if it’s not, at least I know I’ve found some good while I did.”

“Oh?” Hermann asks, smiling just a little. “What’s that?”

For possibly the first time, Gesizler doesn’t respond to him; just stares up at Hermann with soft green eyes and a tiny quirk of the lips that Hermann can’t read, legs now still as they sway gently out of time with the music, coffee and tea growing cold on the counter, and the lights distorting their shadows until they blur together as one.


End file.
